


As We Borrow

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's quiet for a few minutes, Mats and Nova breathing in sync and Henrik watching, thinking he should feel displaced in his own home, but instead – it just fits. Mats feels <i>right</i>, here, curled on Henrik's couch and communing with Nova and letting Henrik touch him, just a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As We Borrow

**Author's Note:**

> Title vaguely from "Painted By Numbers" by The Sounds, which I can't for the life of me stop listening to. Mmmm, Maja Ivarsson...
> 
> There's a necessary disclaimer here that I in no way intend to make light of any serious injuries sustained in professional athletics. That being said, to err on the side of caution, there's a warning here for potential head-trauma/hockey-related violence resulting in injury. I don't personally feel that the descriptions of such fall into the category of "graphic violence", but I'd rather have this more specific warning here, just in case.

The first time it hit Henrik that he might want to both bang the living daylights out of the little Norwegian winger they'd acquired last year, and then maybe fall asleep with him and introduce him to his dog over coffee the next morning, it was in the middle of a practice scrimmage, as he watched Stepan knock Mats forcibly into the boards and steal his puck.

Mats went down, though it didn't seem like a _terribly_ hard hit, went sprawling on his ass and side, and didn't get back up. Henrik's mind went cold and blank, and for a span of about five seconds that seemed like a goddamned eternity, he couldn't force himself to move.

Stepan circled back almost immediately, already shucking off his gloves as the whistle blew, and arrived at Mats' still form first. He bent down, close as he could get in the restrictive bulk of gear, and Henrik skated up in time to hear him apologizing all in a rush, eyes wide and worried.

He wasn't smiling, for once, was all Henrik could think, and directly after that, surprisingly fierce, came the thought: _Good_. He wasn't mad at Derek; the kid didn't mean to do anything, that much was obvious, but Mats was just so _still_ , not right, and.

Of course, that was when Henrik realized he might be in over his head, but at that moment, he really couldn't be bothered to give a shit. Mats was sitting up, unassisted and only a little bleary around the eyes.

One of the medical staff got a hand around his elbow, helped him stand, and waited until he was balanced on his own before beginning the routine peppering of questions about how he felt.

He was fine, he insisted, just a tiny bit shaken up, nice hit, Step, thanks for that. He shook his head as if to clear it of any lingering fogginess - quick, like a puppy shaking off water - and shot Stepan an amused glance that Stepan reluctantly returned. Another firm assurance to the med staffer that he was fine, barely even sore, and Torts was nodding from the bench, gesturing him back in and putting Vinny on the ice in his place.

Stepan ran a hand over his face and skated to the dot for the face-off. Henrik returned to his crease and heard Mats calling out, already near laughter about the incident as he hopped then leaned over the bench:, “I'm coming after you next shift, Step! Watch your back!”

His voice was perfectly coherent and he was perfectly fine and Henrik was _perfectly aware_ of it, but he was already thrown off. He let in two soft goals over the next scrimmage period before he found his composure, buckled down and damn well didn't let himself think of anything but the ice and the puck.

| |  
.  
Except it doesn't work that way. Henrik finishes the game and then stalks off alone afterward. He goes home to shower, which ends up taking longer than usual when he replays the scrimmage in his head and has to stop, _stop_. He rests his forehead against cold tile and tries to get it together. Of all the stupid ways to get hurt in hockey, being checked into the boards by your own teammate during practice ranks up there pretty high.

He can't help thinking what would've happened if Mats hadn't popped up again, all smiles and mock-glares and laughter.

They have a game against Boston tomorrow. Philly the day after, and Tampa Bay in five days. Henrik shoves open the shower door with more violence than necessary and pads, wet-footed, into his bedroom.

Nova untucks the tight curl of herself on the bed enough to give him a glance, then sighs and puts her nose back down on his comforter. It makes Henrik smile, at least a little bit, as he dries off and gets dressed.

She follows him into the kitchen as he makes dinner and from there onto the couch as Henrik sits to watch whatever backlogged episodes of Dexter he still has languishing on his TiVo. He balances his plate on one knee and Nova stretches out, propping her head on his other. She watches him mildly as he eats, her breath damp on his thigh.

Henrik rests his free hand on her neck, scritches gently behind her ears, and ignores the feeling that as nice as it is, just the two of them, it might be nicer still to have another body curl into him at night.

| |

They're on home ice again after Boston and Montreal, hosting Tampa Bay, who are down by 2 halfway through the third and getting desperate.

Henrik doesn't even see it happen. It takes Dubi racing back from around center ice, and finally the furious shrill of the whistle, to shake his focus from everything going on in front of him.

He's still breathing hard from three consecutive saves off a sudden, aggressive forecheck by the Bolts and his knees are still tingling from dropping down too fast, too hard, to block the first shot.

Henrik knows Avery snagged the rebound on the third one, a stick-save on St. Louis' wrister that ricocheted nearly straight onto Sean's stick. Sean slid it to Mats when Gagne came after the puck. Henrik knew Mats was somewhere behind him, beyond the trapezoid but out of Henrik's immediate line of sight.

He even registered that Mats was in the corner, Mats had the puck in the corner, that a big blur of black and white d-man skated around the net to pursue the puck St. Louis lost, and now he thinks he remembers even hearing the sound of the collision into the boards and - why didn't he look.

He sees, though, when the whistle's been blown, when Torts comes to the far end of the bench and looks out on the ice with a deeper furrow between his eyes than usual. He thinks he registers Mats lying motionless on the ice around the same time the fans do. The initial enraged roar of the crowd at the hit quiets when play doesn't immediately resume. The ice, in contrast, is only just beginning to truly explode into reactionary motion, both from the medical personnel rushing in and from the players.

Hedman gets about two feet away from the scene before Henrik barrels into him mid-stride, angrier than he thinks he's ever gotten during a game. He shoves at him, can't stop himself shouting in hoarse Swedish, “The fuck is wrong with you, you trying to fuck him up? Straight into the boards from behind? the _fuck_ \- ” at Hedman, who throws back a “Fuck off, it was a legitimate -” before Dubi's there, skating between them in a spray of ice and throwing a decisive punch that nearly sends him falling backward before he can latch onto Hedman's collar.

Henrik backs off once Dubi bloodies Hedman up a little; he's shaking with wrath and adrenaline and _fear_ , eyes hot behind his mask. When Brewer tries to come to Hedman's aid, Henrik snarls at him to fuck off, luckily has Danny close by to grab Brewer's jersey, backing up the threat, and it's only a moment more before the linesmen step in to break up the fight.

Dubi doesn't let go of Hedman's jersey until the last second. His mouth is bruised and curled in anger as he jerks in the linesman's grip. Henrik can see him spitting out words, still, but can't hear them for the rushing in his ears as he looks at the far corner of the ice.

Mats is sprawled in a small, silent heap oblivious to all the excitement on the rest of the ice. He's face-down, his stick lying about three feet away, haphazard, like Mats let go before he was even starting to fall. Like he was unconscious before he even hit the ice.

Henrik skates over, keeps out of the way of the medical personnel kneeling on the ice around him. He hears the words “stretcher” and “concussion” and once, terrifyingly, “spinal injury”, and he has to close his eyes.

A moment passes, the voices of the medical staff blending together with all the familiar Garden sounds, and then the low murmur of the crowd rises into approval, some applause.

Henrik opens his eyes to see Mats awake, though only tenuously aware. He tries to push himself up on one shaky elbow and is stopped immediately by the med team. Told to keep still. Henrik can see his groggy, disgruntled frown at that from where he's watching and feels a ridiculous, irrational laugh bubbling up in his chest. Of course Mats would court furthering what could be a goddamn spinal injury because he doesn't want to _stay put_.

Someone swears softly next to him, sobering him right back up, and he glances away from Mats to see Danny and Dubi at his shoulder. Dan gives Henrik a knowingly sympathetic look that Henrik ignores, really can't be fucked to examine right now. Dubi just looks righteously _pissed_.

When they bring the stretcher out and load Mats onto it, Dubi links his fingers in Henrik's cage and makes him meet his eyes. He gives it a few gentle tugs - _pay attention now_. “He'll be fine,” he says firmly, and Henrik nods silently, tries to believe him. They watch as the stretcher is wheeled slowly out, Mats' small form dwarfed by the rigid contraption.

The fans give a nice response, standing and clapping as Mats leaves the ice. It makes the lead weight in Henrik's stomach turn to something like nausea. He swallows against it, adjusts his mask, and skates back to his net.

| |

Mats stays overnight in the hospital for observation, and Henrik is there with Prusty and Boyler when he gets discharged.

Henrik doesn't say much, just tries to smile. He clenches his hands into fists behind his back and lets Boyle and Prust make distracting chatter while he stands a bit away.

He goes to get a drink of water when a nurse comes to prep Mats for release, throat suddenly dry, and when he comes back, Mats is staring at Boyle, who turns to face Henrik expectantly.

“You'll let Zucca crash at your place until he's feeling 100%, right?”

Next to him, out of Mats' line of sight, Prust nods leadingly at Henrik, face serious, but reaches down to muss up Mats' hair, saying, “Can't leave the little guy weak and helpless all by himself.”

Mats punches him, Prust's kidneys being handily fist-level with the hospital bed. “Yeah, _weak and helpless_ ,” he repeats, lip curling, and Prust laughs even as the nurse looks up to frown disapprovingly from across the room.

“Seriously, man, the doctor said he should have someone checking up on him regularly. Pruster and I google-mapped on his phone and you live the closest,” Boyle says.

Henrik shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn't really know what to say. He's not against the idea, it's just -

Mats looks at him a little uneasily. “You don't have to, if - ,” he says, switching to Swedish. Prust flicks him in the head for it, an unspoken _no fair_.

He looks so much smaller out of his hockey gear. Even more so in the temporary hospital bed. It reminds Henrik of seeing him strapped onto the stretcher. That rankles, and he interrupts before Mats can finish his sentence. “When's your follow-up?”

Mats bites at the corner of his lip. (It looks chapped and dry. It's a hospital; don't they keep him fucking hydrated? Henrik frowns.) “Tuesday. No-contact until then.”

Five days from now. Henrik nods, making up his mind. It's barely even a decision. “Until Tuesday, then, you're at mine.”

The nurse murmurs “Excuse me” as she slips past them to hand Mats a sheaf of papers, a few last minute instructions and a prescription he can fill, generic painkillers.

Boyle and Prust say their goodbyes, clapping him gently on the shoulder as they go, and then it's just Henrik and Mats.

Henrik jerks his head toward the door and Mats sighs, put-upon, follows him out.

| |

They stop at Mats' apartment on the way to Henrik's. Brian was right; they do live pretty close. Henrik wonders how he never knew that before. He asks Mats if Mats knew they lived barely ten minutes from each other, and Mats scrubs a hand through his hair - “Kinda, yeah.”

Henrik reaches over to the passenger seat and nudges his shoulder. “Should've told me.”

That finally gets a smile out of Mats, and they drive the rest of the short way to Henrik's place in companionable silence.

| |

It barely takes a full day of Mats being too-polite and careful in Henrik's apartment before Henrik's complete indifference to whatever inconvenience Mats thinks he's being really sinks in – for as smart as the kid is, he can pick some dumb shit to be weird over.

Henrik's not sure what is is, exactly, that convinces Mats it's really okay to make himself at home, but whatever it is, it works. By the start of the second day, he comes in to his kitchen to find Mats regarding his french press warily, holding an empty coffee mug.

Henrik comes up behind him, pulls the lever to start the drip out of half-awake habit, and ignores Mats bleary, fervent little whimper of relief when the coffee starts trickling out.

He's pretty sure he's not going to be able to handle even _looking_ straight on at the scruffy, sleep-rumpled picture Mats makes right now, so he clicks his tongue for Nova. It's time for her morning walk anyway.

He sees Mats raise his eyebrows when Nova comes around the corner from the hallway. Henrik grabs her leash from the hook by the door, shrugs into a light wool jacket, and says, “We'll be back. Eat something.”

Mats murmurs something that sounds like agreement around his mouthful of coffee, and raises a hand in farewell as they pad out the door.

| |

The lock on the front door of his apartment has been sticking rudely for the last several months. Henrik knows every time he goes in or out, it's announced by mechanical grating sounds you can hear from nearly the back room.

So sure enough, when he and Nova slip back in through that door, Mats already has his head craned against the back of Henrik's couch, watching Henrik dry off Nova's paws with a ratty dishtowel before she goes further into the house. Apparently it rained last night, though Henrik doesn't remember hearing it. The sidewalks were slick, damp-dark in the morning light, and Nova likes puddles a little too much.

He finishes with Nova, slings her paw-towel over one shoulder, and toes off his boots as Nova skirts into the living room where Mats is sitting, the sleek lines of her body all inquisitive.

He realizes he never really introduced them, kept Nova out of the way in his bedroom so Mats could settle in, before. He clears his throat. “Nova, be good.” Her ears prick back at him, but she's already approaching Mats, who sits quite still as she sniffs and nudges whatever she can reach – socked feet and his knees, the fingers of one dangling hand. When she nudges that, maneuvering it onto her head, he rubs obligingly behind one ear, and Henrik can't help but smile a little.

The next moment, though, Nova jumps up with enthusiasm onto the couch next to Mats and shoves her nose in his ear. It sends his neck abruptly back, and Mats laughs, but not before Henrik catches a pained wince cross his face.

“Sssst! Nova! Careful.” It comes out a little harsher than he meant, but christ, what is he thinking, Mats is more Nova's size than he is Henrik's; letting Nova run wild around a still-healing teammate is just asking for trouble. If something happened to further Mats' incapacitation, and it was as stupid and preventable as Henrik's dog being a little too enthusiastic...Henrik can't even think about that.

Before he can snap his fingers to summon Nova back away from Mats, Mats digs both hands into the thicker fur around her neck, ruffling it the wrong way. She takes her eyes off Henrik briefly to sigh and wriggle in pleasure, collar twisted, her tags jangling.

Mats tilts his head back over the cushions to regard Henrik pointedly. “It's fine. She's fine. She's gorgeous. Please, don't – don't worry.” His forehead wrinkles a little at that last part, like he's not sure if he's got that right.

Nova opens her eyes to pant happily at Henrik and Henrik gives in just like that, no fight to be had. “You tell her if she's being too rough.” He glares - not genuinely - at Nova. “Gentle. _Vara skonsam_.” She grins, tongue lolling, and Mats rolls his eyes at the command. Tugs Henrik's dog down across himself to get at her belly.

| |

Mats comes along on both Nova's walks the next day. He's getting twitchy all cooped up inside, he says, and the fresh air will be nice before the practice tomorrow.

He also wonders out loud if Henrik thinks he could sneak off the no-contact jersey for a regular practice one, since he's feeling fine and honestly, this is an overreaction to a stupid hit anyway and he just wants to _play_.

Henrik gets that he's restless already, had expected it and knows it's a relief that he seems back to normal, but he still can't make himself respond to that kind of joke with anything but silence. His grip tightens on Nova's leash, pulling her away from the street sign she's bent on inspecting.

Mats bumps his shoulder against Henrik's side. “Joking.”

Henrik makes himself smile, can even glance fondly down at Mats without wanting to lock him away in a nice padded box somewhere so he never gets run again in his career. “I know,” he says, and Mats rolls his eyes at him, bumps him companionably again.

And then, because he's a little shit, he points to nothing at all in the distance and shouts excitedly, “Nova! _Squirrel_!”

Henrik has to grab onto Mats, who's grinning so wide his face is going to stick like that, to avoid being yanked off his feet as Nova takes off. He doesn't even feel bad about it.

| |

The practice goes well. Torts draws Henrik aside as soon as he's dressed to ask him how Mats is doing, and Henrik can say with all honesty that he's good, could be a damn sight worse, considering.

Torts keeps a typically even face, but nods and claps Henrik on the shoulder, sends him out to join his team.

It's always strange seeing a teammate in a no-contact jersey, the bright warning of it interrupting the familiar flow of bodies on the ice. Mats whizzes around like usual, apparently unconcerned about his own health, but Henrik can see his frustration when he can't throw his body into a hit that would doubtlessly earn him the puck, or when he knows a teammate is holding back. He doesn't show it overtly or say anything, of course; he's a professional and an adult and he knows how the recovery process needs to work, but it takes a distinct toll even so.

They're both exhausted by the time they get back to Henrik's. It's about 6pm, already getting dark though it's too early to turn in, but Mats collapses full-body on the couch the second he gets his shoes off. He groans loudly into the pillows near his head, and Henrik goes hot and embarrassed all over. It's followed belatedly by concern, so then he really feels like shit.

He walks over and jostles Mats' ankle. His fingers are big against the delicate bones. He tries not to think about that. “Hey. You good?”

Mats mumbles something incoherent, still face-down and muffled by the cushions.

Henrik leaves his hand on Mats' ankle as Nova wanders over. He doesn't lift his head, but Henrik's pretty sure he hears Mats sigh “hi, _dyrebare_ ” when Nova steps in close to pant wetly into Mats' hair.

Before he can think better of it, Henrik lets his thumb stroke over the smooth knob of Mats' ankle bone in instinctive reciprocation for the affection he hears in Mats' voice there.

Mats turns over at that moment, and Henrik takes his hand away, quick. But Mats doesn't look at him, just rolls onto his side to regard Nova. “ _Hei, pen dame_ ,” he murmurs, “ _Pen dame_ ,” as she tucks her nose into his neck and he rests his forehead against her fur.

It's quiet for a few minutes, Mats and Nova breathing in sync and Henrik watching, thinking he should feel displaced in his own home, but instead – it just fits. Mats feels _right_ , here, curled on Henrik's couch and communing with Nova and letting Henrik touch him, just a little.

Henrik blinks out of it in the next second. “Hey,” it comes out rough and he clears his throat. Tries again. “Hey. Stop trying to steal my dog's love.”

Mats rubs his cheek along the curve of bone between Nova's ears – her fur is softest there, Henrik knows – and looks at Henrik from that tilted angle. “Thank you, I'll take what I can get. Nobody else lining up, hm?” His eyes are dark and his voice is softly matter-of-fact.

Henrik sits down next to him, reaches a hand out to scratch Nova under her chin and huffs out a sound of dismissal. Then, “...You're lucky she has a soft spot for very stupid people,” he answers. Nobody lining up, jesus, the kid was blind.

Mats makes his move fast enough that Henrik genuinely doesn't even register him moving, but the next instant, Mats has his mouth up against Henrik's, quick and chaste and illogically hot regardless. Then he's moving away with a hesitant little smirk, half of what it usually is, and murmuring pointedly, “Hm. 'Stupid people'. She does.”

He's up, off the couch, and into the spare bedroom before Henrik can gather his wits about him enough to even think of going after him.

| |

It's doesn't seem like Tuesday when he wakes up the next morning. He knows it's been coming, but it still makes him lie in bed for a bit longer than he usually does – a juvenile attempt to ignore the reality of time. Mats' follow-up physical is today, and after that, Henrik's life goes back to normal. He can erase all those episodes of Gossip Girl clogging up his TiVo and maybe finally get the stupid jingle to his own Head&Shoulders commercial out of his head without Mats humming it at him every goddamn second. (How did he even _find_ it? Sean had something to do with that, probably, because he always does.)

All in a rush, then, he remembers last night: Mats kissing him and _running away_ , the cheating little fuck, and he gets out of bed, throws on jeans and a tee in record time. He's out of his bedroom with the intention of hunting Mats down less than ten minutes later.

As it turns out, he doesn't need to look very far. Mats is sitting at Henrik's kitchen table, cradling a mug of the espresso he's finally figured out how to work. He blinks up at Henrik and says calmly, “You're very aggravating.”

Henrik thinks he snarls, before he stalks over to the table, tugs Mats bodily up, and traps him between the edge of the kitchen counter and his own body. “ _I'm_ aggravating?” he repeats.

When Mats just nods, a telling hint of amusement starting to lurk behind his innocent facade, Henrik closes his eyes as if for patience. “ _I'm_ aggravating,” he says once more, before getting a fist in the soft cotton at Mats' neckline, pulling him forward so he can get at Mats' bottom lip with his teeth, reproving and incredulous and utterly unable to wait.

He doesn't intend it to get as out of hand as it quickly does. Well, honestly, he couldn't say for sure what his intentions were when he came down to find Mats this morning, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't even consider this option, but it was – vague. Nothing near the reality.

Mats opens up for him eagerly, sighing deep in his throat as Henrik's hands grab at his waist, yanking him in a little rougher than he means to. Henrik tries to go easy; he's being mindful of how very much he can't just drag Mats into place and have at him, doesn't want to further any injury that could still be lurking somewhere beneath the surface like they do, so often -

It's hard to think about that, and even harder once Mats wriggles in some urgent, lucky contortion that maneuvers one of Henrik's thighs between Mats' legs. He presses in close enough that Henrik ends up with the narrow swoop of Mats' hipbone cradling his cock. No doubt his jeans feel rough and uncomfortable on the soft skin there where Mats' sweatpants have ridden down, his tee shirt rucked up, but Mats is hardly complaining.

Mats whines into Henrik's mouth, instead, hips working against Henrik's in a desperate, shameless grind. He's just as frantic now as Henrik's been feeling for _ages_ and god, he's a gorgeous thing, all blown pupils and bitten lips, writhing like he's trying to burrow straight into Henrik after just a little bit of Henrik putting his mouth on him. Christ.

It makes Henrik want to put him over the kitchen table or the counter or just drag him right down onto the floor, get at _all_ of him. Wants to see what his hands look like on his skin, how his own fingers look digging into the muscles on Mats' compact, athletic little form.

He makes himself pull away, instead. Mats follows his mouth blindly and Henrik groans, gets a hand between them to keep Mats at bay. He extracts himself unwillingly. “Your – your follow-up. It's eleven now. Appointment's in twenty minutes.” Mats is still distractingly glassy-eyed, lips bitten red and sore-looking. Henrik can't make himself look away from them. “...You should get ready,” he finishes.

Mats huffs, tosses his head briefly to get sweat-damp hair out of his eyes, and spreads his palm low on Henrik's belly. “You'll fuck me later then, yes?”

Henrik's spine goes boneless for a second, and he has to concentrate on not attacking Mats again right there, follow-up be damned. He swallows hard and gives Mats a quelling look. “See what the doctor says, first.”

He steps back and Mats slumps invitingly against the counter. His expression is smug. “I'll be fine. You'll see.”

Nova perks up at the jangle of car keys when Henrik lifts them from the bowl on the counter. Mats still hasn't moved, just tracks Henrik's movements with a fixed, compulsive gaze.

Henrik snaps his fingers at him. “Come on. Get a shower, get dressed,” - Mats' lips curl wryly at that and Henrik's breath goes short. “Just. Fucking get ready so he can give you the okay, all right?” He turns on his heel and hears Mats sigh behind him, mutter, “You owe me so many blow-jobs.”

Twenty minutes later, Henrik flips his keyring in one hand, catching it neatly out of the air as he waits for Mats to shove his feet in his boots. Nova is standing off to one side, watching the proceedings with interest, and Henrik shoos her away affectionately, ruffling her ears and pushing at her head.

She curls up on the doormat when they leave, and tucks herself into a ball. Rests in the quiet, empty hall until they return.


End file.
